Page 80 of The Earl's Reluctant Artist

Eliza softened. “Then I thank you.”

They walked together through the nave, where light filtered through tall, plain windows. Isabella’s voice carried a rhythm, like she had done this before several times. She spoke with calmness and confidence, and it made Eliza grow fond of the walls.

“These walls date back nearly two hundred years,” she explained. “Laid stone by stone by the villagers themselves after the last war. You see the uneven cut of the masonry? They had little more than picks and carts, yet they raised this place in less than five years.”

Eliza reached out to touch the cool stone. “Remarkable. But surely materials like this are rare. I cannot imagine the level of maintenance it takes.”

“Indeed,” Isabella said with a small laugh. “We patch as best we can. The rain often eats at the mortar, and during the cold seasons, the roof suffers for it. Yet somehow it all holds. Thanks to donations from kind folk, it is made just a little easier.”

“You receive donations?” Eliza asked, turning.

Isabella nodded. “It is the only way we manage to keep this parish alive. Villagers give what they can, but the larger sums come from those with means. It is the way of things.”

Eliza frowned thoughtfully. “And how do you keep track of them?”

“Everything is recorded in the big book,” Isabella replied.

Eliza frowned. “The big book?”

Isabella nodded. “Yes. Would you like to see it?”

“I would very much,” Eliza said.

Isabella led her to a side chamber, where shelves leaned with age. From a low table, she pulled a heavy volume bound in cracked leather. A pile of dust rose as she lifted it, but she laid it open with care.

“Here,” she said, flipping through. “Every offering. Land rents, alms, relief for widows. We keep careful records.”

Eliza bent over the pages, her eyes moving slowly down the neat lines of script. Coins and goods noted. Dates stretching back years. She admired the precision.

But then a name leapt out. Perhaps it was because of the different handwriting, or the familiarity of the name itself, but her eyes froze on it.

“Lord Calthorne,” she murmured, reading it aloud.

Her brow furrowed. She had met someone with that name just a few days ago, at her ball. It was one of the men who had come specifically to meet with Marcus. Her eyes traced the line again. A large donation had been entered just weeks before, and it seemed to be earmarked for community improvement.

Something was wrong, and she could feel it in her bones.

Community Improvement.

The handwriting here was different. It wasn’t done by the same steady hand that had written the earlier records.

Eliza tapped the line. “This one. Who recorded it?”

Isabella peered closer. “Ah. That came through Mr. Greyson. A solicitor, I believe. He handled the money on behalf of several gentlemen, and my husband received it. However, he did not write the note himself.”

“Several gentlemen,” Eliza repeated quietly.

“Yes,” Isabella said. “It was presented as a collective gift. We were not told anything else. But it was generous, and we could not refuse. We cannot afford to look a gift horse in the mouth, my lady.”

Eliza stared at the ink, the same unease growing in her again. Her eyes settled on the date the donation came in. Marcus had been in London at that time.

She closed the book gently, though her hand lingered.

“Thank you,” she said. “You have shown me much.”

Isabella smiled, unaware of the storm behind her guest’s calm face. “It is my honor, Lady Vale. Would you like to see the grounds as well?”

“Another time,” Eliza replied, straightening. Her voice was even, but her thoughts were racing.